


Out of the frying pan, into the tumultuous, writhing ocean

by squidmemesinc



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: (no egg preg), A Random Unnamed Planet, Choking, Drift fights some birds and loses, Drift kinkshames a tentacle monster, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consentacles, Edgeplay, Emetophilia, I think?, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Penetration, Orgasm Denial, Other, Overstimulation, Oviposition, Sounding, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Tentacles, not that he really wins against the tentacle monster, so emetophobia warning, takes place after Drift leaves in mtmte, this has way too many tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 05:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10734741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidmemesinc/pseuds/squidmemesinc
Summary: Forget Decepticons—Drift can handle them—the natives—those giant, flying, swarming, squawking, spawns of slag are more than he signed up for.To say nothing of whatever it is in the sea that's just grabbed him.





	Out of the frying pan, into the tumultuous, writhing ocean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prowlish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prowlish/gifts).



> I can't believe I started working on this last night. It feels like it's been a year. By which I mean this fic has taken an entire year off my goddamn life. 
> 
> I'm joking. I love tentacles. BY THE BY heads up to [these](http://bombmetal.tumblr.com/post/124506580504) [awesome](http://bombmetal.tumblr.com/post/153674842709/wow-hi-haha-ive-been-running-a-little-low-on) [pals](http://cosmicdanger.tumblr.com/post/116531334377/more-i-have-no-explanation-i-just-want-drift). Thanks for the inspo. This is also for ~*YOU*~ I don't have a tumblr but I hope this reaches you somehow, maybe. Keep up the good work.
> 
> Read my warnings carefully, let me know if I forgot anything!
> 
>  **EDIT:** WOW LOTS OF OTHER PEOPLE HAVE DRAWN DRIFT TENTACLE ART Like I said I don't have a tumblr so I have to rely on people sending me things. THIS IS FOR ALL OF YOU.... Thank u....thank u...,,,

This is not a good situation, Drift thinks as countless warnings pop up on his HUD proclaiming his systems are starting to flood. The water was a good bet for getting away from those awful _birds_ , but Drift in particular is not well adapted to be aqueous. He closes off as many external ports and vents as he can to keep from taking on too much water and meeting a very different, much _lamer_ demise than previously anticipated. Though being pecked to death by a huge flock of organics who were likely attracted to his (previously) sparkling paint job while trying to liberate them from Decepticon influence is still pretty lame. He thinks he’s avoided it, though, and he treads water for just a moment before pulling himself out and collapsing on the shore of whatever body of water it was that offered him this shelter from the avian nightmare.

He doesn’t venture too far out, given the rocky overhang he’d skirted under and launched off of now covers him from an aerial perspective, and focuses on flushing his systems of the excess water that is making his joints lock up. Being alone in this kind of situation is really not ideal, and despite Ratchet’s constant snark, he is feeling the medic’s loss noticeably at the moment. Several moderate priority warnings are complaining about water contamination, so he takes care of those first, draining some of the associated fluids as much as he dare without running totally on empty. Oil and energon and other vital organic resources trickle out of him and into the water. He’ll have to replace those as quickly as he can, since burning through mixed fluids is sure to gum up his works, and that’s only a road to worse problems.

Drift watches grimly, thinking about the trouble he’s gone through to procure the meager replacement stores on his ship. He closes his eyes, not enjoying the sight too much. He might have to circle back to this planet later after hitting up a trade stop, maybe get some medical attention just in case. Forget Decepticons—he can handle them—the natives—those giant, flying, swarming, squawking, spawns of slag are more than he signed up for.

Drift senses something about to snap towards his leg even before it makes contact, but he’s not quick enough to jerk out of the way. His eyes snap open and his hand is on the nearest sword.

Speaking of things he didn’t sign up for.

Drift is ready to make up for the misstep that allowed this slimy tentacle to wrap around his ankle, but even his reflexes aren’t quick enough to outmaneuver whatever it is that’s deemed it necessary to grab him has a hold on all of his appendages, and there’s more where that came from.

“Not welcome in the sea or the sky, then? I get the hint, I’ll stick to the land,” Drift complains, straining against his bonds. They’re quickly joined by a seemingly endless onslaught of twirling, writhing appendages, which continue to reach up and wrap around his knees, midsection, and perhaps most alarmingly, his neck. “Hey, watch it!” He kicks at whatever’s attached to the tentacles, but it’s still submerged in the water and rather unkickable.

That may not be the case for long, because this monster that has him in a vice grip is tugging him back in.

“Slag this,” Drift gripes at the offending assailant, trying to dig his heels into the rock. The monster’s not having it. Maybe Drift is more dexterous than he is strong, but that hardly makes him weak—this thing is just absurdly strong and never seems to run out of extra grips. Maybe it’s just the number of points this thing has a hold on, or the fact that he’s operating on low—well, everything, and a contaminated everything at that—but this situation is beginning to look grim. He’s pulled back into the water.

But about halfway down, the thing stops. Not so many vital systems are submerged this time, or at least nothing that can’t be adequately sealed off, and he’s not about to turn his chin up at this good news. This doesn’t stop him trying to break free.

It also doesn’t stop things from getting worse. Again.

The tentacles continue to multiply, and the ones that aren’t being used to restrain him are sneaking under and around his plating, probing at connecting cables and fuel lines and anything they can slip between, squeezing into any space they can to explore. Drift’s whole frame is beginning to feel cramped and stiff, and movement is getting even harder.

A couple of tentacles brush up between his legs and Drift takes in a sharp vent when the surprisingly perceptive tips find the seams of his interface paneling. Whatever thing they’re attached to, it seems to have a knack for the mechanical, and figures quickly that the panels have some give to them. They begin to manually push back through Drift’s locks, and the mechanisms in place are squeaking as they're ground open.

Interface equipment wasn’t exactly on Drift’s mental checklist of vital equipment (he's trying to force himself to use literal rather than personal standards), but he hadn’t anticipated this. He swallows, trying to pretend he hasn’t noticed the pliant nature of these appendages, the flexibility, and the fact that they tend to vary in thickness from a fingers’ width to that of a sizeable spike.

Like it or not—and Drift isn’t totally sure he’s decided—his interface panels slide back under the attention of these pursuant tentacles. Thus far, the beast has opted to send the littlest tentacles in, for exploratory purposes Drift surmises, following with a size up to test the elasticity. Thus far, it hasn’t had much luck in this regard, but Drift predicts a change in its luck with this new part of him it’s discovered. A few small tentacles probe at the folds of his valve and another teases his sheath for his spike, making him writhe a bit more.

“Ah—” Drift gasps when he feels a slight intrusion in his valve. He quickly sets a block on the activation of any fans that might be tempted to kick off, since his vents are closed and he can’t open them and blowing hot air against them won’t help anything, but thus far at least he’s managing to stay cool with his lower half submerged in the water. He curses his jumpstart reaction to becoming aroused at any kind of touch, especially in situations such as these where he doesn’t quite know what the outcome will be, namely if it’s safe to test how far he can get. But at least at this very second, it does...feel a bit nice. He moans quietly and twitches in his restraints as the thin tendrils probe along the walls of his valve, brushing what seems like intentionally against the nodes inside, though perhaps this also exploratory behavior. He doubts this thing is really attempting to be intimate with him. Nonetheless, he starts to feel lubrication beading up inside him, though it’s not holding up particularly well in the water.

The creature seems to take notice of this, and he could swear he can feel it somehow spongeing away the fluids he produces. The texture of the tentacles changes as it does so, producing a different kind of sensation completely. Drift’s legs twitch outward; he can’t help moving his hips against the tentacles, subconsciously hoping for more friction.

Meanwhile, the tendrils that have snuck into his sheath are playing at the head of his spike. Equally as sensitive and eager as his valve, it responds even when he’s not sure if he should let it, sliding out of him and pressurizing fully in a short time. This intrigues the monster further, and it wraps more thin, probing limbs around its discovery.

The beast is beginning to draw some of the smaller investigative tentacles away from Drift’s limbs, though it leaves enough thick ones tight around him to keep him in place. The ones circling his middle and neck have soft tips that move absently and tickle along his cheek and thigh plating. Again, though he doubts that this is the intention, it’s oddly...comforting. Drift remains unsure how he feels about this whole encounter. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself even as he’s struggling not to make soft sounds. It occurs to him there’s not much benefit to silencing himself. If the monster doesn’t seem to care about his struggling, it likely won’t care for him making noise either. He bites his lip anyway, feeling unsure.

A larger tentacle presses into his valve alongside the two thin ones that remain, and now Drift does make a soft but unrestrained gasp. There’s a bit of a press with the thickness of this one, though not an uncomfortable one. It’s the thickness of maybe a few fingers, if you average between the multitude of fingers that have touched him here. What’s bizarre is that this tentacle feels noticeably more slippery. The others were smooth and perhaps had a bit of a sheen to them, as Drift thinks he remembers organic sea dwellers often has. But this one is coated in some kind of lubricant of its own, he thinks, which stays consistently slick even when mixing with the water, and also tingles pleasantly when smeared along the walls of his valve. It moves slowly through the space, the tip of it curling softly against his ceiling node and twirling upon itself in little circles. Drift’s voice picks up a considerable amount of volume now, and he throws his head back, feeling his throat reverberate between the thrumming of his vocalizer and the thick arm wrapped around it.

Drift twists his head as he rolls his hips impatiently, decidedly keen on getting more friction at this point. Whatever that weird lubricant is that was on that last tentacle seems to be warming him up inside. He feels his valve relaxing and twitching open, rendering the space the tentacle occupies even as it gently writhes against his ceiling node not nearly satisfying enough. “ _Ah_ , please,” he can’t help whispering aloud, gripping the rocks he’s lying on and even trying to edge into the water just a bit further, a little closer to what he hopes is relief.

What he gets instead is the tentacle around his neck coiling around further to free up the end of it and tapping gently across his cheek, towards his lips. He twitches his head away and seals his lips together, but it continues to poke against them, looking for a way in. Drift jerks again, feeling hesitation with regards to this particular intrusion rise suddenly in him, but is distracted into a stiff arching stillness when another much larger tentacle squeezes into his valve besides the others, suddenly and forcefully, putting a stretch on him for the first time that actually lights up some of his nodes. He cries out in involuntary pleasure and the tentacle in his mouth slips inside, suddenly drawing more body from itself to stuff his mouth as full as his valve. Quickly, he shuts the vent at the back of his throat to prevent it from going any further, assuming that would be its goal. He gets the sense from the thick, rubbery skin pressing against his tongue that it won’t much mind his teeth—that is, if he were even able to close his jaws around it.

The fattest tentacle in his valve is oozing more of that strange lubricant, mixing with his own, but still having that strange warming effect and continuing to make everything tingle. The sensation of it undulating up and through him, twisting with the other smaller ones to try to fill up all the space inside him, is amplified. The nodes inside him sing surges all through his frame when they’re thrust against. He moans again, this time muffled, but the pleasant sensations in the lower portions of his body are distracting him from the mild discomfort of the other tentacle squirming around his mouth, bumping against where it’s sure there’s another way into the heat of his core.

It actually feels sort of...amazing. It’s not like a spike, which is stiff and hard, or even fingers. These tentacles make a much softer sensation when they brush him, not to mention that they’re flexible and the fluid, twisting movements of them bumping and writhing against each other and his walls as they’re gently thrust in and out of him are amplified a great number of times by the stuff coating his already thick sensory meshes and nodes inside. Drift suspects the lubricant now smeared all over him is some kind of aphrodisiac, because he’s fairly certain that given a chance to escape at this point, he might prefer to see this through, providing it ends in what he senses will be a very satisfying overload. He firmly hopes that’s the outcome in sight, or at least that he’ll be able to overcome his more carnal desires in the interests of his own safety if that option is visibly removed from the table.

The creature doesn’t seem satisfied with the two meager points of penetration it has on Drift, and begins sending out exploratory tentacles once more, focusing more attention between his legs and around his head now that it knows there’s something to be found in each of those places that satisfies its requirements, whatever those may be. It had previously abandoned his spike once it had pressurized into something seemingly solid, but now returns its attention to it when it senses a small amount of transfluid leaking from the tip, dispersing into the water. It coils tightly around him, starting at the base and sending the testing little probe poking at the biolights along the shaft as it travels in an upwards spiraling motion. It squeezes around him and plays at the ridge under the tip before finally making it towards the source of the fluid.

Drift tries to make some kind of noise of discouragement around the tentacle in his mouth, knowing it wouldn’t understand him, but of course the thin tendril begins pressing inside anyway. It’s small, but still stretches and burns slightly as it travels. Apparently, the thin ones can also secrete the mysterious lubricant, because this one does to ease its passage, and that tingling sensation begins at yet another point on him. Drift’s stifled wails of pleasure are conflicted, but the sensation of being so fully plugged up makes his valve seize tightly around the other tentacles stuffed inside.

He feels them slide out a bit, failing to get past the powerful, involuntary contractions of his frame. The two smaller ones which had stuck inside just to be forced against the walls draw out, and the larger two pull back a little as well, and he loses the thickness they’d provided coiling onto themselves. Drift regrets this, because he was enjoying that bit of stimulation the most and has no idea how to signal what he prefers, if this thing even cares, which he doubts. He hopes he hasn’t discouraged it from...well, whatever it was trying to do there. The tentacle around his spike is attempting to thrust slowly in and out of him as it squeezes the outside, and though he’s growing used to the strange sensation enough to enjoy it at as well, it makes him a bit nervous and isn’t quite what he feels he can overload to.

He makes a soft noise around the one in his mouth, which shoves in a little deeper, making his throat plates tighten reflexively behind the vent. He’s starting to heat up inside too, not managing to expel enough of the muddy heat building in his core through auxiliary vents with the main ones blocked off. Oh dear. He tries to relax his valve, which is soaked in the sticky tingling lubricant and aches to be stuffed full and rubbed against. The tentacles inside draw back further and Drift wilts.

And then two more even fatter ones slide in besides the other two, threatening to split him open. These are aggressive, ramming with speed previously unseen all the way into him and nearly all the way out. His valve is getting gummy with all the lubricant the tentacles are secreting, but the force of the thing is able to squeeze past the thick viscosity and still open him up further. This might be the biggest...anything Drift has ever had in him, and he’s seeing stars. His valve is burning and throbbing, it feels so amazing he wonders if he might die before he overloads. His legs are spread wide through his own volition, but held there by the other tentacles which twirl around his thighs and hip joints and play at his seams, which are burning hot even submerged in the water.

The small tentacle is still playing at his spike, and he’s surprised how little time it’s taken him to warm to the sensation. He has the briefest thought of wondering how he else could be filled up by this creature, how that might feel, what kind of things he might enjoy when the one in his mouth manages to pry open his vent as well and slip down into his throat.

In a panic, Drift shuts off his expulsion reflex systems. He’s not sure what else he could do, because he has no way of physically expunging this thing from him. This situation isn’t good—in there, it could do some damage to him, were it so inclined. The thing has at least shot forward enough to stretch itself out, so it’s no longer quite so thick and he can release a little of his pent up heat. Distracted by the throbbing in his valve and his spike, he tries to force negative thoughts from his mind and focus on the good instead.

This is difficult when the tentacles in his valve draw free again—all of them, this time. They’re quickly replaced, but just by one thin, pathetic waif of a tentacle, which slithers all the way up into him and simply rests there. Drift let’s out a stifled sob of frustration, but doesn’t want to activate his vocalizer or anything that might disturb the one in his throat. He would _so_ love to just overload and get out of here, what with the kind of day it's been.

He feels the tiny tentacle twitching slightly, then a pressure at the opening of his valve. The pressure travels up along the line of the tentacle through his valve and...out of it? Leaving something thick and oblong behind.

_Oh._

For _frag’s sake_.

Drift feels like an idiot for not realizing sooner. This stupid organic is trying to use him as some sort of...incubation chamber. Gross.

The egg squeezes out completely and another one starts to move through to join it.

Stupid though he is for not realizing, and as disinterested as he is in being some kind of mechanism to deliver this thing’s spawn… This also feels _really_ good. The egg is big and curved and sticks in the sticky coating of his valve, soon joined by another so that they permanently press against the nodes there, causing him to shift his legs. More eggs are deposited through the thin, stretchy tentacle as it moves down slowly, making sure to make as much use of Drift’s worked-open valve as it can.

While this is certainly not the intended purpose of Drift’s equipment, he can’t help enjoying everything this creature’s done to it so far—something he’s not fully prepared to regret, but fully aware he may. The eggs continuously light on his sensors, and with no friction against them, the thing is still squeezing and prodding his spike, and it becomes an exercise in willpower to keep from breaking from frustration. He’s being viciously edged by this thing, probably not to its knowledge or interest, but that is definitely what is happening. He gets the sense that once it’s done packing his valve to the brim, it’ll back off, and he gets a very debauched thrill imagining how good it’ll feel to ease them out of himself, to wrap his hand around his spike himself and rub at his anterior node, which, untouched thus far, is brimming with charge. He wonders how long he’ll last, left to his own devices.

Drift’s valve is halfway stuffed when he feels another sensation of pressure sliding against his mouth. He’s not shocked at this point. In fact, he’s been expecting it for a while now, but there’s little he can or feels moved to do to prevent the thing from forcing its eggs into his fuel tank. Speaking of not using something for its intended purpose. He’s shut off his reflex systems, but he can still feel it sliding down, stretching out the passage and taking up a considerably larger amount of room in there, and he gets annoying warnings about foreign intrusions.

He twitches and straightens out nonetheless. Without the panic associated with trying to expel them, even this feels a little bit erotic. Drift hopes interfacing normally won’t be ruined for him forever, should he make it out of here alive. His valve is aching and burning, nearly full with each sensor throbbing at him, and his fuel pump is getting there too, though with a less gratifying response from his kernel. The squeeze past the bottlenecks—the opening of his valve, and over his tongue, between his teeth—the feeling of the persistent stretch—almost brings Drift to the edge a few times, but he chokes it back (quite literally).

This wicked, teasing monster, nearly done with its deposit, draws its tentacle away from Drift’s spike at last, abandoning it as a viable thread for pursuing. Sensing a completed and perhaps a bit of a wasted effort, it withdraws from the warm depths of his fuel tank as well, leaving just one tentacle probing about his valve. Drift sobs with relief and finally redirects his vents fully back through his mouth, panting out hot steam. The thing keeps its rigid hold on Drift’s limbs, and in fact stretches his legs even wider, shifting the eggs inside. A tentacle gently shoves the eggs already in him a bit deeper, making him groan and clearing room for one— _two_ more.

And the holds on him relax, finally. Twirling limbs draw away from him, unfurling and splashing as the thing retreats into deeper water, assuming it’s done its job, and Drift’s body sags in the water. He’s so stuffed and overcharged he can barely move, but he forces himself to pull himself out of the water. He hopes he doesn’t rust for this.

Drift crawls onto the rocks on his hands and knees. The warnings he’s been suppressing about foreign bodies in his fuel system are climbing in priority and frequency, and it’s starting to make him dizzy. The eggs in his valve stay stuck when he moves, he now realizes, glued to him and each other by the lubricant the thing was putting into him, which has gotten significantly tackier in consistency. Well, at least he’ll get to see how it feels to get those ones out. If he can. He’ll worry about them in a minute, after he shuts up his frantic kernel.

With a slight sense of dread, he re-enables the expulsion reflexes in his fuel system. Sickness hits him all at once. The sensation of having these things stuffed in a system that should not ever bear such things is now fully at the front of his processor. They start to come up immediately, but slowly due to their size, bumping against each other unpleasantly. They’re incredibly solid and clink dully on the rocks before falling back into the water, taking with them the last dregs of his watered-down energon. His frame shakes, internal systems contracting, including his valve around the other eggs, which only spins the sensations in his body in a crisis-inducing mixture of pleasure and displeasure. His HUD is completely unreadable and he ignores it. By the time the last one starts moving up, his system has given up on assisting him. He gags on it, reaching into his mouth with his fingers to tug it the rest of the way out. He drops it bitterly, glad to be rid of them and coughs.

He hangs for a moment, expecting to have lost all traces of his arousal, but as his system calms down and warnings wink out, and with the expulsion of his excess dirty energy, he’s acutely aware of the eggs still shoved inside him.

Between all the abuse he suffered at the hands—tentacles?—of the monster and the kind of problems that had been plaguing him beforehand, such as being attacked by slagging _birds_ and having to empty his vital fluids into this slagging _water_ , which probably summoned that _slagging monster_ , he’s literally dying for release.

Shaking and moving slowly, for each shift of his frame rustles the eggs, which press so potently on his sensors that it’s almost painful. Drift gets on his knees and leans his shoulder into the outcropping on the rock for stability, which he certainly can’t provide himself at this moment. He wraps a hand gingerly around his spike while the other hovers near his valve, hesitating. Stroking himself at a slow, measured pace, he brushes his thumb against his anterior node.

His overload is immediate, and nearly knocks him offline, and yet by the time he’s done reeling from it, the eggs are still stuck in him and his leaking, humming spike is still fully pressurized. “Oh, Primus,” Drift moans pitifully. He has to get them out.

Drift abandons his spike and puts a whole hand on the rocks. He’s lost even more confidence in his ability to hold himself up, but he knows at this point he should probably try to touch himself as little as possible and the overloads will probably come anyway. His free hand reaches underneath himself and gently touches the egg peeking out of his valve. It’s the lightest touch, but the gesture ripples against the other solid objects in him, against him and his chest heaves expelling hot air. His fans are blasting full force now that he’s out of the water, but there’s so much lost time to make up for.

Slowly, he edges a finger into the sticky substance holding the egg in him, trying to hook around it and pull it out without making contact with any sensors himself. It comes free, and the others shift subtly into the freed space. Shocks wrack Drift to his spark as he overloads a second time in the span of just a few minutes. He shallowly. “One down,” he murmurs to himself softly.

He slips his fingers further in, trying to reach another. This one is stuck, and tentatively, he squeezes his valve on it. He half-expects to overload again, but narrowly avoids it with a particularly steeled surge of will. The egg shifts and pops into his hand, and the connecting string of goop pulls another free. The structure of the stuff seems to be weakening outside of the water, which Drift supposes is a relief, because he’s never been able to reach the edge of his valve where the rest of the eggs are.

He squeezes down gently again, and more eggs shift. After three, they aren’t so firmly wedged inside him. Four come loose at once, sliding through his valve along with a slurry of his and the monster’s lubricant. Drift overloads again, letting out another sob. He’s almost there. He gives himself a moment to just lean against the rocks, wondering if he might somehow get them out and just abandoned the rest of his arousal, but for all the time he waits, it stays with him. He sighs and straightens up again, steeling himself. If he really has to do this, he’s going to make it count.

Cupping his hand gently over his valve, Drift presses his palm lightly against his anterior node and tightens his valve again. He feels them shift down, though not completely. His ceiling node is finally free from this vicious onslaught, but he’s on the brink of _yet another overload._ Though he’d never have expected to make this kind of promise to himself in 10 million years, he vows this will be his last today. Another contraction has the eggs shifting closer to his opening, and a third has one of them resting against his fingers. For reasons totally unknown to himself, he drops his fingers down slightly, letting the egg come with them until the thickest part is holding him open, then nudges it back up, in and out of his valve a few times. It takes an exceptional amount of mental effort to keep from overloading again.

Carefully, he lets this egg drop through his fingers, but stops the second again. He can feel now that there are only two left in him, and he gives himself the same treatment with this one as the last, probably with the intention of driving himself mad, he thinks. But it doesn’t quite. He hangs on, though his body begs for an end to the onslaught.

On the last egg, he bobs it against himself yet again, brushing the heel of his hand carefully against his node, and all of his systems threaten to go offline out of spite. Drift rocks his hand under himself and pushes the egg fully back into him now. The walls of his valve are slick and gooey with the melting slush left inside, and when he squeezes, it hugs the egg up into him again, sliding slowly and smoothly over each of his abused sensors. Drift sobs and finally lets it slip out of him, reaching that last overload easily as soon as he surrenders the firm hold he had on it.

He’s sure he offlines for just a moment, only to be brought back by his body complaining of low fuel, recharge needed, oil needed, hydraulic systems overfilled, yadda yadda. Shuddering violently, Drift eases himself up on his hands and knees, stays there for a long moment, and then finally heaves himself onto his feet. As world-shattering as those overloads were, he absolutely cannot handle another round like that for probably at least a hundred years without forfeiting his spark, and Decepticons be damned, he is getting _off_ this planet and away from all of its crazy organics. And then he’s gonna recharge for at least a week.

**Author's Note:**

> I so need to go to bed earlier.


End file.
